Yesterday's Child
by Drusilla2
Summary: Years after "The Gift", Buffy has mysteriously returned to find that everything has changed during her absence. Meanwhile, Max has been having strange and devastating dreams and looks to Sunnydale for his answers. A BtVS/Roswell crossover. M/L and S/B.
1. Prologue: Dreaming

TITLE: Yesterday's Child  
  
AUTHOR: Drusilla  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Max/Liz  
  
SPOILERS: Season 5 of Buffy, Season Two of Roswell  
  
SUMMARY: When Max is haunted by odd dreams of a certain petite blonde, he brings Liz along  
to Sunnydale, California to investigate, in hopes of finding more of his kind.  
Meanwhile, Buffy explores her feelings for Spike and discovers that everything  
has changed during her absence. Set five years in the future.  
  
Buffy/Roswell crossover, Spike/Buffy and Max/Liz 'ships.  
  
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Jason Katims.  
  
DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please  
  
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!  
  
  
  
  
YESTERDAY'S CHILD   
  
* * *  
  
PROLOGUE: DREAMING  
  
* * *  
  
Max has been dreaming.  
  
For the past two fortnights, he has been haunted by the same images-- a petite blonde   
awaiting him with every drop of an eyelid, hidden under the obscurity of his consciousness.  
Her features are unclear, but her aura and atmosphere clings to his nonexistent body with   
such despair and sorrow and need that he stands captivated in the depths of nothingness, his  
heart craving for more.  
  
He sees, also, the girl's grave, and it saddens him somehow, that such a divine beauty had  
been put to rest so soon, before he could ever have a chance to catch glimpse of her. He  
studies the simple headstone in her memory, etched with plain letters forming her name and  
a short description of her life which baffles him.  
  
  
Buffy Anne Summers  
  
1981-2001  
  
Beloved Sister  
Devoted Friend  
  
She saved the world a lot.  
  
  
And tonight, he sees more.  
  
Flashes from her life, it seems, they clutter his head until he opens his mouth to   
scream in hot pain. And when no sound escapes, he pants for breath and allows his mind  
to take in the images. The girl sword-fighting with a dark-haired man. Her eyes glowing  
orange as she speaks some lost tongue with 3 voices. And her broken body lying upon  
a pile of bricks, the newly-risen sun flooding her body in all her glory.  
  
The flashes stop, and the images become slower, more real, as if he is witnessing events  
in the passing. He sees a small crowd gathered at her funeral during the day, her few  
close friends wiping away the tears silently as each lay a rose onto her coffin. He sees,  
as the day falls into darkness, two leather-clad men come for her under the moon's veil,  
each dressed in a long dark coat and a sullen expression.  
  
The blond one carries yellow roses and weeps brokenly as he lays the bouquet gently to her  
bed of earth, falling to his knees, unable to support himself any longer. The darker one  
remains standing, stiff and silent, setting down red carnations and straightening again,  
his face cold and unlenient.  
  
Max sees days passing. He sees the earth above her grave become overrun with wild bluegrass  
and other weeds of sorts. He sees the fresh flowers lain down by the blond man each night;  
always in the night. And then he sees the night the man does not come.  
  
When he wakes in the morning he groans, squinting his eyes at the light which escapes his  
drapes. His head throbs and he feels as though a million hammers have been pounding  
at his temples.  
  
All day he is distant; his expression foretells a type of doom as he stares blankly ahead in  
his semi-catatonic state. And when night comes he falls into bed quickly, in anticipation  
of his visions.  
  
He sees the same two men, glaring at each other. The taller one growls. "What the Hell   
are you doing here?" He spits, sneering.  
  
"To pay my respects." The leaner man replies, stiffening. His accent is a low-class  
British.  
  
The first man smirks. "You loved her, didn't you?"  
  
"What's it to you?" The Englishman looks away.  
  
The other laughs aloud. "You're an idiot, Spike. You never touched her, did you? She  
would never have let you. And she wouldn't want filth like you polluting her grave."  
  
The man called Spike shakes his head.  
  
"I left because I wanted her to have a normal life. So she could move on and get away from  
our kind. Do you think you had a chance with her? Do you think she would stop for a   
second to notice you if I was around? The truth is Spike, you never had anything I didn't  
touch first."  
  
Fresh tears betrays the blonde's emotions as they dance across his face. He looks back  
again at the dark-haired man. "Leave me alone, Angelus." He says lamely.  
  
Suddenly, the taller man takes his face into his hands and plants a rough kiss cruelly onto  
the smaller man's lips. His expression becomes somewhat affectionate. "You could be  
anything, Spike. Stop trying to follow my footsteps."  
  
The blond man does not reply.  
  
"Look at you, Spike. You're beautiful. All my children are beautiful."  
  
"Dru." The younger one puts simply.  
  
"She came to find you, didn't she? And you sent her away."  
  
"Out of love."  
  
The older man smirks as he walks away. "Out of foolishness." He says, shaking his head.  
  
Max feels himself drift away, his eyes tracing their way back to his world in a blur of  
confusion. Something tells him that he has missed the most important part of the   
conversation, the vital key to discovery.  
  
He goes on in dreamless sleep for hours, waking at odd hours only to use the bathroom. He  
pounds on his head, providing an odd sensation which overwhelms his head's ache at rare  
moments, trying to decipher the meaning of it all.  
  
The dark man had referred to the younger one as his child.  
  
It was not possible. They looked roughly the same age.  
  
Could they be aliens? A whirl of memories flies in his head as he tries to recall the man's  
exact wording. **Get away from our kind.** He had said. He shakes his head. That  
could mean anything. 'Our kind' could mean gangsters. It could mean criminals.   
  
It could mean aliens.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
TO BE CONTINUED... or not.  
  
Tell me whether you think this should be continued!  
  



	2. Chapter 1: Prayer

TITLE: Yesterday's Child  
  
AUTHOR: Drusilla  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Max/Liz  
  
SPOILERS: Season 5 of Buffy, Season Two of Roswell  
  
SUMMARY: When Max is haunted by odd dreams of a certain petite blonde, he brings Liz along  
to Sunnydale, California to investigate, in hopes of finding more of his kind.  
Meanwhile, Buffy explores her feelings for Spike and discovers that everything  
has changed during her absence. Set five years in the future.  
  
Buffy/Roswell crossover, Spike/Buffy and Max/Liz 'ships.  
  
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Jason Katims.  
  
DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please  
  
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!  
  
  
  
YESTERDAY'S CHILD  
  
* * *  
  
CHAPTER 1: Prayer  
  
* * *  
  
  
The lights slant across their faces, the impossible, unnatural colors dancing over their  
brows like wildfire. He moves to the music, unaware of all that encompasses him, save the   
girl.   
  
She is a thin wisp of a thing, her pale face is dappled with freckles and tendrils of   
scarlet hair cascading to her waist. She is young and foolish, swooning over college boys,   
flashing seductive smiles to the young men around her.   
  
The song ends and she disappears into the crowd again, and he begins to stalk back to his  
table, when suddenly a flash of color catches him off-guard. That brilliant mane of gold,   
it is all too familiar. It makes him somewhat nostalgic, and a strange emotion bristles   
through him, a wave of loss and anger and regret all jumbled together into a torrent of   
pain.  
  
He follows that golden hair, and to his dismay the crowd has covered it for the moment. He  
spins around, searching, and everything around him screams and melts together until his  
world is blurred and spinning.  
  
And then he sees her.  
  
He blinks as tears come to his frigid blue eyes. She smiles at him sadly, her eyes tired  
and her lips thin. She holds out a frail hand. Taking it, he kisses it and pulls her into  
a slow dance.   
  
They both know that this is not the time for words.  
  
He kisses her dry lips gingerly, afraid that she will break.  
  
As they move together, he speaks at last. "You're not real." He whispers. "This is a  
dream. A good dream, but nevertheless, a dream."  
  
She smiles and does not attempt to deny his words. "Shh.. Just dance, Spike. Just dance."  
She whispers softly as she puts a slender hand over his cold lips.  
  
He closes his eyes as he pulls her close. This one is so real; it is so hard, to not let  
himself be fooled.  
  
When the music stops, she takes his wrist and they sit down at his table. She smiles at  
him gently, asking, "So how have you been?"  
  
He swallows hard. "Missing you."  
  
She looks back longingly at the group of dancers closest to her. "It's been so long." She  
whispers. "I don't recognize any of these people." She says wistfully.  
  
"Are you real?" He breathes. She feels real.  
  
She smiles wanely. "I'm real." She says.  
  
He has dreamed of this moment nearly every day for the past five years. He has prayed for   
it, begged for it. He would have died for it. His dreams have materialized, have become   
something real and solid. A burst of energy sparks through his body and he feels an over-  
whelming desire to simply hold her and never let go, in case she falls from his grasp again.  
  
"Where is everybody?" She inquires, interrupting his rush, and suddenly, everything becomes  
very, very real. The screaming stops, and all he can see is her.  
  
"Who?" He stares at her face distractedly. God, he has missed the warmth of her skin, the  
ferocity of her eyes.  
  
"You know, Dawn and Willow and Xander..."  
  
His expression darkens, and she feels the blood drain from her face. Has something   
happened to them? "Dawn is gone," He whispers sullenly, and her lip trembles in anguish.  
  
She has no time to absorb the fact because Spike has pulled her to her feet.   
  
"Let's get you home, pet." He says kindly, letting her lean on his arm like a small child.  
  
When they pull up the driveway of 1630 Revello Drive, she notices that the house is in a bad  
state. The paint has faded, and the grass is a scorched brown, flecked only with the green  
of dandelions and other weeds. Fresh tears spring to her eyes and she breaks down at the   
doorstep, remembering that Dawn is not there waiting for her.  
  
Flesh scraping against cement, she cuts her hands, and Spike struggles to hold her up when  
she is so decidedly set on lying on the cold ground.   
  
He opens the unlocked door and carries her in. He closes the door behind him gently and   
they both peer in around curiously. She studies the pictures on the walls with wet eyes  
and sees that all the Dawn's face has been removed from all the photos. With a shock she  
realizes that her memories are fading too, so that she cannot even remember the color of  
her own sister's eyes, or the degree of her smile.  
  
He begins to walk up the stairs slowly, haunted by the memories of the house and all that  
comes with it. He has not returned to this place since she died, because it was too   
painful, seeing the deserted house, and not his three favorite women inside.  
  
He sets her down as they reach her room, and she collapses in a heap of tears onto her  
dusty bed, never minding the disgusting state of her sheets.  
  
Spike stands at the doorway uncomfortably, not sure how to comfort her, never mind whether  
she would let him comfort her. He has been rejected and put off so many times by her that  
he has no idea what to think, how to act anymore. He shifts a little and says, finally,   
"Shh, Buffy, it's alright," as he kneels by her bed and looks into her eyes.  
  
She stops shaking for a moment and hiccups twice, brushing her tears away. Their faces are  
infinitely close without touching, and he can feel her hot breath against his cheek. She  
sees a deepness in his blues, a warm against his shade of cold, a love against regulation,  
a kindness against all boundaries.  
  
Their lips lock, in prayer, as Juliet once said, and she feels herself become lost in his  
embrace. When they part finally, she pants, her breath taken away by the strangeness of it  
all.  
  
"What can I do for you?" He breathes in a tone so low and quiet that it is barely more  
than wind in her ears.  
  
"Just hold me." She whispers, and he complies without a word. She clings to him tightly,  
for dear life.  
  
He is all she has left.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
TO BE CONTINUED...  
  
Please review! Constructive critism is always welcome, plus I need lots of ideas!  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 2: Hourglass

TITLE: Yesterday's Child  
  
AUTHOR: Drusilla  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Max/Liz  
  
SPOILERS: Season 5 of Buffy, Season Two of Roswell  
  
SUMMARY: When Max is haunted by odd dreams of a certain petite blonde, he brings Liz along  
to Sunnydale, California to investigate, in hopes of finding more of his kind.  
Meanwhile, Buffy explores her feelings for Spike and discovers that everything  
has changed during her absence. Set five years in the future.  
  
Buffy/Roswell crossover, Spike/Buffy and Max/Liz 'ships.  
  
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Jason Katims.  
  
DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please  
  
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!  
  
  
  
YESTERDAY'S CHILD  
  
* * *  
  
CHAPTER 2: Hourglass  
  
* * *  
  
  
Time is black.  
  
It is smoke that lingers at the drawn breath until its hue is hidden from the naked eye,  
whirling faster and faster in a funnel-shaped movement, gentle and loving to the young,  
harsh and unforgiving to the aging. It becomes a wild thing, something untameable.  
  
Something that scares her.  
  
She lies on her bed alone, sprawled out on top of her covers, the scent of his skin and the   
chill of his touch still fresh on her tongue. She stares hollowly at the great spanse of  
gray that is her ceiling, studying the rough of stucco intently, bent on finding a hidden  
history that is not there. She stirs a little, thinking of death and love, of hate and   
love, of pain and love.  
  
And she wonders.  
  
What Spike is, she cannot know. The facts are all too knotted and snarled for her; Her  
newly-born brain shrieks with overload. He is a monster, the little voice repeats over and  
over again, until the words mold themselves into truth.  
  
Words spoken are oft true, someone once said.  
  
But she lies, even to herself. She wonders how many falsehoods she is capable of telling,   
how many more she will regret.   
  
Yet she knows that no matter how many lies she whispers, it is she who is fooled in the end.  
  
She has been doing this for too long, running from all verity until her world has become  
one of anger and pain, and black with time.  
  
Time, her only enemy, is the only truth she knows.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
Tapping on her window.  
  
She groans, twisting and covering her ears with her pillow. It does not stop. With a   
sigh of resignation, she swings her legs over the side of her bed and walks groggily to the  
window, turning a lamp on on the way.  
  
"Max." She smiles. "I haven't seen you all summer." She says, opening the window for him.  
  
As he comes in, she looks at him with a worried expression. "Max, what's wrong?" She   
looks back at the bold red numbers on her alarm clock. "It's 4 a.m.!" She exclaims.  
  
He closes his eyes in pain. "I need your help," He whispers.  
  
She nods, smiling. "What is it this time?"  
  
"I've been dreaming."  
  
"So have I." She laughs, her eyes twinkling. She has developped a type of humor of late,  
something to ease the pains of life and schooling. Both she and Max have graduated from   
college with honors, and now going for masters degrees and the lot, while trying to   
maintain their odd relationship they called love.  
  
All them have left destiny long behind.  
  
Isabelle was indeed studying at a graduate school in San Fransisco, and from her frequent  
letters, calls, and visits on holidays, she was having the time of her life. She had   
strayed far from the 'Ice queen' image, her attitude relaxed, frivolous, and.. happy.  
  
It is a quality they had all lacked in high school days, no matter how in love they were,  
no matter how they pretended to be.  
  
"I've been seeing." He whispers. "Every night for the past week, maybe. The same images.  
Slight variations, maybe, but always the same ending, the same colors, the same.. emptiness.  
And then last night and tonight, I saw.. more. It was like I was somewhere else while I  
slept, somewhere in the past."   
  
She nods in understanding. Things like these are not new to her; She has known of his  
nature for years, and knows that other strange things come in the package. "Tell me what  
you saw."  
  
"There is this girl." He rolls his eyes when he sees her raise her eyebrows. "Not like   
that. Just listen." She smiles and he continues. "This girl. She died five years ago.  
I know this because I always see her grave. She was twenty, and her-- her gravestone said  
the strangest thing."  
  
She looks at him expectantly.  
  
"It said, 'She saved the world a lot'."  
  
Her brow furrows in confusion.  
  
"And then, last night, I saw flashes of her life or something. She.. she killed somebody.  
I saw her run through a dark-haired man with a longsword. The thing is, he must not  
have died, because I saw him at her grave, after her funeral.  
  
"And," He went on, "I saw something happen to her eyes." He shook his head. "They began  
to glow.. orange. And she spoke a weird language. It sounded ancient. And that's not the  
weirdest part." He laughed unhumorously. "The weirdest part is that she.. her voice was  
not one voice. It was three voices."  
  
She sits back onto her bed and listens intently.  
  
"There's more. After she dies, there are two men who come to her grave. They only come  
at night. They both wear long black coats.. leather. One is a bleached blond, punk-rock  
sort of style, the other is dark-haired, more business-like, the same man she KILLED. I   
could tell they both loved her, but from their conversation, she only loved the dark-haired   
one back.  
  
"And then the dark-haired man made a comment that kind of made me wonder. I mean, it could  
mean anything, but I can't help think that it could mean something important." He looks at  
her for a moment before going on. "He said something like 'I left her so she could have a  
normal life, so she could get away from OUR KIND.'"  
  
She does not speak. She turns away a little. It reminds her too much of themselves.  
  
"And at the very end, the dark-haired man refers to the blond one as his child. Which,  
techinically can't be possible. They both appear to be around the mid-twenties." He musses  
his hair with his hands for a second before collapsing onto a chair. "These dreams are so   
real. They- they're more like visions, I guess. I mean, it has to be, right? How could I   
make something up like this?" He begins to pace around the room.  
  
"Did you catch their names?" She whispers, blinking.  
  
"The girl's grave said Buffy Anne Summers. Had she lived, she would be 25 by now. The  
blond man, he was called.. Spike." He laughs a little. "Weird names, I know, but that's  
what they said." He exhales, saying, "Maybe I am going crazy."  
  
"And the other man?"  
  
"The one named Spike called him Angelus." He sighs.  
  
"Do you think they're aliens?"  
  
"It's the only.. logical.. explanation. And it's not very logical."  
  
She nods. "So what are you going to do?"  
  
"Find them."  
  
  
* * *  
  
TO BE CONTINUED...  
  
Feedback please! I love reviews, constructive critism, ideas... ANYTHING!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 3: Shattered

TITLE: Yesterday's Child  
  
AUTHOR: Drusilla  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Max/Liz  
  
SPOILERS: Season 5 of Buffy, Season Two of Roswell  
  
SUMMARY: When Max is haunted by odd dreams of a certain petite blonde, he brings Liz along  
to Sunnydale, California to investigate, in hopes of finding more of his kind.  
Meanwhile, Buffy explores her feelings for Spike and discovers that everything  
has changed during her absence. Set five years in the future.  
  
Buffy/Roswell crossover, Spike/Buffy and Max/Liz 'ships.  
  
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Jason Katims.  
  
DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please  
  
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!  
  
  
  
YESTERDAY'S CHILD  
  
* * *  
  
CHAPTER 3: Shattered  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
She sleeps the day away, her frail body fatigued from the recent birth and transformation.   
She is weak; dusk will fall soon, and should the vampires she used to slay find her, she  
will have no chance.  
  
But she is oblivious to all demon-hood, all vampires, except the one.  
  
She dreams of him; of his silken touch and his gentle carress. She has nothing to base  
her fantasies upon, of course-- not yet. She smiles as she wakes, thinking of nothing but  
him, no memories of Dawn left in her mind.   
  
Walking into the night, she takes a deep breath, loving the way the night brushes past her  
skin.. so alive for a time so dead in the cycle.   
  
The moon is a yellow sliver tonight, thin and waning, golden from the light it has stolen  
from its brother-sun. She is nervous about tonight-- not just because she will see HIM,  
but because there are things she needs to know. Willow, Xander, Giles.. even Anya. She  
needs to know their fates.   
  
She runs her fingers through her tangled hair, cursing herself for not having changed or  
showered since she was.. born. It is a miracle that she can walk, even: her mind barely  
remembers how.  
  
The town appears dead here. No one walks on the streets; No lights can be seen from any   
house in the proximity. She shivers a little, maybe from the wind that is chilling her   
arms, maybe from the air that has changed so suddenly.  
  
She turns a corner, and the world slips from her feet.  
  
Spike.  
  
Locked in a passionate embrace with some red-haired girl, her body writhing under his, his  
hands tucked around waist possessively.   
  
She feels his passion, his desire, and stares on as cold splashes down her cheeks. She  
cannot see the girl's face, only her thin limbs tugging onto her Spike's arms.  
  
Tears sting her eyes as she swallows, refusing to believe his betrayal.. was it betrayal?  
  
Five years, they had said. It has been five years. The beautiful blue people.   
  
He lets go of the red-head, and she freezes as the girl collapses to the ground, her body  
limp. She gasps involuntarily, and upon hearing the disturbance, he turns around in full  
vamp face, his teeth stained with his victim's elixir.  
  
She turns and runs, choking back sobs as her world becomes a blur of wetness. Just when  
she thinks she has figured it all out, she discovers something new.  
  
Five years, they had said.  
  
Five years.  
  
Running, running, running. Oh God.  
  
Was it he who had killed everyone? She felt nauseated at the idea. The one man who she had  
trusted! The one man who was supposed to take care of them all. Oh God, she feels sick.  
  
She stops for a second, leaning on the brick wall to catch her breath. He is behind her  
in an instant and she sinks to the pavement. "I trusted you." She whispers, and he   
advances.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
When he turns and sees her, he is mesmerized for the instant, shocked at her arrival. She  
looks a ghost, her skin pale, her white dress flying, her hair a mess of gold.   
  
He sees her tears, her wet cheeks. He blinks, and she is gone, leaving him to wonder if she  
was ever really there. Perhaps it was all his imagination, a play he had invented for   
himself, something to take away the blame. Mayhap he had lost it, just like Dru, when  
everything he had ever loved had been taken away from him.  
  
He follows her shadow tentatively, unsure of her substance. She has quite a few lengths on  
him, but she is slow without practice, and soon he is on her. She leans agaisnt the wall,  
panting for breath as he draws near, and although in a daze, he can read the pain on her  
face.  
  
What has he done?  
  
"I trusted you."  
  
"I know. Let me explain."  
  
She shakes her head sadly. "There's no need." She whispers.   
  
"I should have told you."  
  
"Yes. But it is too late."  
  
"I'm sorry." Is all he can say.  
  
"I thought--" She swallows. "I thought I had it all figured out."  
  
"What did you figure out?"  
  
"About us."  
  
"Buffy--"  
  
"Tell me a story," She cuts him off.  
  
He shifts uncomfortably. "What story do you want to hear?"  
  
She looks at his blues, his crystal gems that she has mistaken. Her expression is   
meaningful. Her secret has just been shattered, but it still trails her heart. An   
abomination, she knows, but it is all she has left of her former self, no matter how deadly  
and wrong it is. She cannot escape it: she would rather be broken.  
  
She wants to know. "A story about history. A tale of pain, of hurt. Of loss. Of   
promises. And-" She breaks off.  
  
"And what, pet?" His tone is gentle, the type of tone a teacher uses on his kindergarten  
students.  
  
She closes her eyes. "Of love."  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
TO BE CONTINUED...  
  
Author's Note: Hey, I know all my chapters are really short, especially this one, but   
sometimes there's a place where you just gotta cut off for that dramatic effect!   
  
Anyways, please review and leave your email address! Thanx!  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 4: Skeleton

TITLE: Yesterday's Child  
  
AUTHOR: Drusilla  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Max/Liz  
  
SPOILERS: Season 5 of Buffy, Season Two of Roswell  
  
SUMMARY: When Max is haunted by odd dreams of a certain petite blonde, he brings Liz along  
to Sunnydale, California to investigate, in hopes of finding more of his kind.  
Meanwhile, Buffy explores her feelings for Spike and discovers that everything  
has changed during her absence. Set five years in the future.  
  
Buffy/Roswell crossover, Spike/Buffy and Max/Liz 'ships.  
  
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Jason Katims.  
  
DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please  
  
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!  
  
  
  
YESTERDAY'S CHILD  
  
* * *  
  
CHAPTER 4: Skeleton  
  
* * *  
  
  
Darkness. Black. Fear, and a damp type of smell that makes him gag. Bottles of clear  
liquid, labeled with black, magic-marker letters he cannot make out. Falling, falling,   
falling...  
  
Running away; far, far, away. Motion underneath his feet; wheels turning on pavement. A  
green sign and white shapes upon it.  
  
'Now leaving Sunnydale. Come back soon!'  
  
"Max?"  
  
He blinks, and the world falls back to sanity.  
  
"Max."  
  
"Sunnydale." He whispers.  
  
"Where is that?"   
  
"I know the way."  
  
"How?"  
  
"I just do." He closes his eyes another time, his dreams bleeding into reality. "We have  
to go now." He moves as if to leave, and she pulls him back.  
  
"Max, stop. We can't leave at this crazy hour! Besides, we need to pack. *And*, it's   
raining outside."  
  
His expression is desperate as he shivers uncontrollably. "It hurts," He whispers.  
  
Her face softens and she goes to hold him. "Shh.. it's alright. As soon as the sun rises  
in the morning, we'll pack a few things and high-tail it out of here." She reassures him.  
"You can sleep here for now, if you want." She whispers, smiling coyly.   
  
"Thanks. Do you have any sleeping bags?"  
  
She presses a hard kiss to his lips.  
  
"There's no need." She says, and they lay down.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
"Once upon a time," He begins, "there was a vampire. And he loved a girl-- a woman--  
more than anything else in the world. But she was the Slayer, and she did not love him.  
He gave up *everything* for her. He went against his own kind. He refused to drink human  
blood. He went through torture and Hell just to see that she and her kin remained safe.  
He valued her more highly than his own unlife.  
  
"And one day, they all find out that the Slayer's sister is not her sister at all, but a   
Key, a mysterious link to all dimensions."   
  
She opens her mouth to speak, but he looks at her dangerously, and she clamps her jaw shut.  
  
"And *then*, a Hellgod comes to town and wants the sister so she can go home. To Hell. The  
only problem is," He chuckles good-naturedly. "that if she opens the gates to Hell, then  
all the barriers which seperate the dimension from any other will fall, and all the worlds  
will bleed into one.  
  
"And so he fought for them. He fought tooth and nail," He whispers as he says this, his  
eyes dark, unforgiving. "But it was not enough. His love sacrificed herself into the   
portal, to save mankind. She died, and a part of him died too, that day.  
  
"Good old Sunnydale was nearly in ruins by then." He turns around for a moment, unwilling  
to have her see his weakness. "Many of the buildings had been burnt to ash. More than half  
the population disappeared, and the few that remained picked up their bags and left. Only  
the foolish stayed.  
  
"He should have left, too after that. But he couldn't. He had an obligation. He made a  
promise to a lady once, and he would rather die than not see it realized.   
  
"He moved into her house, and took care of her baby sister, and everything went well. The  
Slayer's friends, the Scoobies, accepted him as a close friend, and they fought the evil  
that lurked in the town together.  
  
"And one day, a dreadful thing happened. The vampire was drunk, at a bar, and got into a  
fight. He realized that the chip did not work." He turns around and stares into her eyes.  
  
"For a long while, he kept it secret. He did not crave human blood anymore, so he did not  
kill."  
  
"A year after the Slayer's death, another one comes to town. And not quietly, either. One  
night, she broke into their home and tried to kill the dead Slayer's sister, thinking she  
was a vampire. He managed to kick the stake away in time, but she had a knife in her boot.  
She put the knife to the girl's neck, and that was when he clicked in.  
  
"He lunged at the Slayer and she fell, dropping both the girl and the knife. She fought   
hard, but being newly trained, she was nowhere near as skilled as the previous Slayer. It  
was over quickly, and he fed from her. He drank human blood."  
  
She cowers under him, shivering.  
  
"When he was done, he turned to see that the sister had been cut, and badly, too. She was  
dying, and there was nothing he could do. And so he held her. After a minute, she   
disappeared, and became nothing but green energy and silver dust.  
  
"But the Scoobies came in at that moment. And they saw his blood-stained teeth and the   
lifeless body of the Slayer, and they were afraid. He tried to explain, but they would not  
believe him. With the sister, the monks had also taken the memories that came with her.  
  
"And so they forgot. They tried to kill him, but he got away." He closes his eyes for  
a moment, his face a mask of pain. "It seems, they had all been prepared for the moment.  
They did not trust the vampire; They were ready in case he went *bad* at any given time.  
  
"He ran away. For a long time, he lived as human, almost, eating human food and living a  
human life."  
  
"And then the God came back. She had an army of demon minions that wreaked havoc upon the  
town. She looked for the Scoobies, for she was bent on revenge of the worst kind."  
  
"Torture." She whispers.  
  
"Yes. Torture and then a good brain-suck." He looks at her, his eyes forever boring into  
her depths. It is wrong, she thinks, that eyes can do such a thing. That eyes can see into  
another's deepest fears.  
  
"And so the vampire did a noble thing. He performed the ulitmate sacrifice, and he saved  
them."   
  
"What did he do?"   
  
He draws his face close to her own.  
  
"He killed them."  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
TO BE CONTINUED...  
  
HAHAHAH! Aren't I evil? Don't worry, folks, Spike isn't though.. (evil, I mean).  
More coming up! Please review!  
  
  



	6. Chapter 5: Glass

TITLE: Yesterday's Child  
  
AUTHOR: Drusilla  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Max/Liz  
  
SPOILERS: Season 5 of Buffy, Season Two of Roswell  
  
SUMMARY: When Max is haunted by odd dreams of a certain petite blonde, he brings Liz along  
to Sunnydale, California to investigate, in hopes of finding more of his kind.  
Meanwhile, Buffy explores her feelings for Spike and discovers that everything  
has changed during her absence. Set five years in the future.  
  
Buffy/Roswell crossover, Spike/Buffy and Max/Liz 'ships.  
  
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Jason Katims.  
  
DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please  
  
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!  
  
  
  
YESTERDAY'S CHILD  
  
* * *  
  
CHAPTER 5: Glass  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Tears stain her cheeks and she watches him, letting the droplets fall to the pavement.  
  
Cold. The world no longer welcomes her and she feels the breeze's pull. Hugging her  
knees to her breast, she sobs silently for the fates of her loved ones.  
  
It would be easier if she could hate him, or if he had killed them out of hate.  
  
But she is not so lucky.  
  
Hate is too easy, and she loves him still.  
  
He turns away and reaches for his coat pocket. Withdrawing a pack of cigarettes and a   
lighter, he smokes his pains away.  
  
"How can you be so cold?" She whispers, seeing his indifference.  
  
He laughs cruelly, maniacally, and she is afraid that it is not him, after all.  
  
"Cold." He shakes his head. "Don't speak to me about cold, love. You have no idea.   
You're not real. Buffy is dead. She is rotting right now in six feet of graveyard dirt.  
You're an illusion. You're something they made up to punish me."  
  
Her tears never stop falling. "No."  
  
Again, he puts his back to her. He is glad she cannot see his face.  
  
"Why?" Her voice is raspy and she chokes on the words. "How could you?"  
  
"I *saved* them." His tone is harsh again, hurtful. "I did the one thing you never could  
have done, because you would never have had the guts."  
  
"You lie." She says desperately. "They could have lived."  
  
"Yes, they could have. What would you have done, Buffy? You would have killed them to   
save Dawn. Would you have killed them to save themselves?" He sneers.  
  
No. The answer is no.   
  
And she weeps. For Xander. For Willow. For Giles, and Tara, and Anya. For the girl  
whose name she cannot remember, and a little for herself.  
  
And yes, even for him.  
  
For the boy she once knew-- the love-sick man who was sweet and adored her, for the   
beautiful boy she loved who had become a monster she cannot recognize.  
  
"Finish the story."  
  
"There's nothing left to tell." He looks at her strangely.  
  
"There's always something. Tell me how they died."   
  
The cigarette burns out and he lights another, the flame from the small silver box the only  
thing alive in the grayness. "He went after the witches first." He takes a deep drag and  
the smokes flies away quickly, eager to leave the gloom. Seeing her look, he smiles grimly.  
"No, he did not feed from them. He snapped their necks. They died quickly."  
  
Another drag, and he continues. "The whelp was next. He was harder. Never trusted the  
vampire, the poor bloke, and it made things difficult. Finally the vamp had to settle  
with stabbing him. Not pretty." He shakes his head, sighing. "By the time he died his  
clothes, the carpet, the walls: all painted red. He shouldn't have fought back."  
  
"That's when the girlfriend decided to stop by. She was brave and all that, wanted to   
avenge her lover's death. She gave up in the end; died with a smile on her lips and  
a rusty dagger in the heart."  
  
"The Watcher was the hardest of them all. They didn't call him Ripper for nothing, you  
know. Gave the vamp a good fight there." He pauses for a moment, remembering the fight.  
  
"And?"  
  
"He ripped the old man's throat out."  
  
Her crying does not stop and she wonders how much moisture is left in her. She hates her  
weakness; but it is all that is standing between her and the night.  
  
"What happened to the vampire after that?"  
  
Spike laughs, almost. "The idiot stayed in Sunnyhell. Maybe because he had nowhere else  
to go. Maybe because the ghosts of memories still haunt him. He became a vampire again.  
You can't drink pig's blood if there's no butcher left to buy it from. He hunted again, but  
he killed only to feed. Only when it was needed.  
  
"He stopped killing demons. How could he? He was one of them."  
  
"There were no other Slayers? They just left the town to burn?"   
  
"Others might have been called, but none came. And it was fine that way. Demons were free  
to roam about in the night; there was no one left that they were afraid of. They walked  
the streets openly, and still, humans failed to acknowledge them. And demon races   
prospered, with no predators."  
  
She closes her eyes. "Not even you."  
  
"What do you think I am, Slayer, your little pet dog? Someone that you can kick around and  
expect to always come back? You *died*." He chokes at horrid words, and his eyes become  
wet for the first time. "You died and I did the best I could. I kept my promises, but they  
still didn't accept me, did they?"  
  
His guard collapses momentarily and he sits down onto the ground with her, burying his face  
into his hands. "You died and there was no reason left. There was nothing left for me.  
No purpose."  
  
She touches his face gently, and he jerks back suddenly and stands up again, disgusted with  
his behaviour.  
  
"So what have you got to say, Slayer?" He says venomously. "You said you figured something  
out."  
  
A single tear, her last, rolls down her cheek. "I loved you." She says in a hushed tone,  
like it is something sacred that cannot be uttered in anything above a whisper.  
  
He is stunned at first, and then he scoffs, nonplussed. "Yeah. Bit like Romeo and Juliet,  
then, aren't we?" He says casually.  
  
She is hurt by his reaction. "Romeo and Juliet are dead."  
  
"You're right, pet. And so are we."  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
TO BE CONTINUED...  
  
A.N.: I know there hasn't been too much of the Roswell folks yet, but there will be more  
of them soon!   
  
I can't promise too much though, because this fic will be more 'Buffy' than 'Roswell'.  
The story will revolve mainly around Buffy and Spike, Max and Liz being only "sidekicks."  
  
  
Please review, guys! I desperately need ideas and encouragement.  
  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter 6: Pieces

TITLE: Yesterday's Child  
  
AUTHOR: Drusilla  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Max/Liz  
  
SPOILERS: Season 5 of Buffy, Season Two of Roswell  
  
SUMMARY: When Max is haunted by odd dreams of a certain petite blonde, he brings Liz along  
to Sunnydale, California to investigate, in hopes of finding more of his kind.  
Meanwhile, Buffy explores her feelings for Spike and discovers that everything  
has changed during her absence. Set five years in the future.  
  
Buffy/Roswell crossover, Spike/Buffy and Max/Liz 'ships.  
  
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Jason Katims.  
  
DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please  
  
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!  
  
  
  
YESTERDAY'S CHILD  
  
* * *  
  
CHAPTER 6: Pieces  
  
* * *  
  
  
They depart later in the day than either of them had hoped for, so that the sun glares  
overhead furiously and waves of heat form thick in the air.   
  
His skin is a sickly colour; his face drawn and his eyes blackened. Last night he dreamt  
of no more than the girl's whisper to his sleep, and yet he is more fatigued than he was  
before he lay down.  
  
She insists on bringing along the 'basic necessities' as well as on driving. He protests  
at first but gives in easily: he is too tired to care.   
  
He is back to sleep again as soon as the car's engine begins purring and his mind drifts  
away into another world.  
  
The first thing he sees is a painting. It is a contemporary oil piece by some unkown  
name, and rather peculiar. The entire canvas is a red of different shades and textures,   
except for the edges, which are a bluish tint. He looks away for a moment and notices a  
white plaque beside it, similar to those at museums and galleries.   
  
Virgin's blood III.  
  
He blinks and again his eyes graze the paint. He touches it guiltily and to his horror,  
the paint is wet and comes off onto his finger. He squints at the red as it becomes less  
and less viscous.  
  
It is blood, and strangely, it does not seem odd on his hands.  
  
He opens his mouth. "Tara," he says calmly, in a voice that is not his own. His body is  
not his own either, he discovers, and it moves on its own accord.  
  
The named huddles in a corner, afraid. He looks to the ground and sees the body of another  
one, a red-haired woman, whose neck rests at an impossible angle. Her blood stains the  
hardwood, seeping into the cracks, as well as under the lacquer.  
  
His stomach heaves for a second, but nothing happens.  
  
He steps closer.  
  
The girl closes her eyes and a pencil flies toward him. By some instinct, he reaches  
behind him and catches it without incident, before it can bury itself under his flesh.  
  
"Shh.. Tara, don't struggle. Please." The voice is amazingly gentle and friendly for   
someone who has killed and is about to kill another. "It's easier for you if you don't  
struggle."  
  
She whimpers, her body quivering, and he kneels down to meet her eyes.   
  
"Please," She whispers, her voice hoarse. "Please."  
  
"Shh.. let me save you. Let me do something right, for once." He cups her face with his   
cold hands.  
  
Her eyes grow wide and she begins to scream. He forces her head to the side and he feels  
the bones snap with an incredible ease. She falls backwards, her blood splattering over   
the white-washed wall and his hands.  
  
And everything is red.  
  
He looks at the two girls in horror. The screams are gone, but the silence is louder. Oh  
God. Tears blur his vision and his thinking all at once. He wants to sink to the ground  
and hug himself for comfort, but his body does otherwise. His face smiles grimly at the  
two bodies, his expression one of relief and sadness together.  
  
The blood spreads and spreads over the cherry, lapping over his feet like a tide at the   
beach. He lets it encompass his shoes before he steps back.  
  
Dazedly, he walks to the kitchen, and for a fleeting moment he considers calling the police.  
The thought is lost quickly; almost pushed from his mind by some unknown force. Some other  
emotion overwhelms him: one of want and need and repression. Is it the blood? By some  
urge, he raises his hand to his mouth, but then withdraws it before it can make contact  
with his lips.  
  
"Buffy, forgive me." He whispers as the blood is rinsed clean.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
They have been driving for three hours when she pulls into a gas station. She looks over  
to him fondly, watching the rise of his chest as he sleeps. He is her everything, and she  
would go to the ends of the earth if it meant being with him.  
  
She decides to take a bathroom break so she shakes his shoulder a little, only to jump back  
like she has been shocked with electricity. Frowning, she carefully puts a slender hand  
onto his and she gasps at what she sees.  
  
She is huddled into a corner in a fetal position, hugging her knees. The floor is covered  
with blood, and it oozes near, but it doesn't matter. Her lover is dead and life is only  
optional at this point.  
  
He advances on her and she whimpers. He is not tall, but lean and muscular, with a finely  
chiseled face and a feline type of attraction. His moves are sleek, gentle, and he smiles  
at her like she is an old friend.  
  
(Shh.. don't struggle...)  
  
She looks at him forlornly, her blond hair a mess on her face. Blond hair? She doesn't   
have blond hair. No no, this is all wrong.  
  
She closes her eyes.  
  
(Concentrate!)  
  
A pencil comes flying toward the man, and he catches it. Pencils don't fly.  
  
(Let me save you.)  
  
Save her? No no, he is not her saviour. He is a killer. He has killed many and he will  
kill her just as easily, won't he?  
  
Her skin crawls as his hands touch her face. She screams, and her vision is a dark, dark  
red all of a sudden. Vaguely she is aware of the wetness at her throat and at her lips,  
but she is concentrating the strange feel of it all. Her muscles must have collapsed or   
something, because her head is suddenly very heavy and her fingers refuse to move...  
  
She screams again, and the people turn to look at her. She blushes and pants for breath,  
wiggling her fingers to make sure that they are still working.  
  
She goes to shake Max, worried for him and the toll these visions are taking. She calls  
his name a few times, breathlessly, and then slaps him gently across the cheek.  
  
He won't wake.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
TO BE CONTINUED....  
  
Please review! I love good feedback.  
  
  
  



	8. Chapter 7: Ghosts

TITLE: Yesterday's Child  
  
AUTHOR: Drusilla  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Max/Liz  
  
SPOILERS: Season 5 of Buffy, Season Two of Roswell  
  
SUMMARY: When Max is haunted by odd dreams of a certain petite blonde, he brings Liz along  
to Sunnydale, California to investigate, in hopes of finding more of his kind.  
Meanwhile, Buffy explores her feelings for Spike and discovers that everything  
has changed during her absence. Set five years in the future.  
  
Buffy/Roswell crossover, Spike/Buffy and Max/Liz 'ships.  
  
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Jason Katims.  
  
DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please  
  
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!  
  
  
  
YESTERDAY'S CHILD  
  
* * *  
  
CHAPTER 7: Ghosts  
  
* * *  
  
  
She is sitting in the windowseat, her chin propped up on her arms, her face aglow with   
morning sun. She seems thoughtful, her expression holding a child-like quality that   
envelops her thin figure like a magickal aura.  
  
He watches her through narrowed eyes, playing dead. She looks over at him for a moment,  
and noting the rays of sun which threatened to dance upon his flesh, she stands to pull the   
heavy drapes together, banishing the light from the room.  
  
Moving silently, she pads across the carpet and disappears into the hallway, closing the  
door behind her, shutting his existence from the pretense of her life.  
  
Beside him the covers are unwrinkled, unmarred in their white cotton purity.  
  
It is like she was never there.  
  
Perhaps it was an illusion, after all. Perhaps his mind is getting too old, too worn, to   
see the truth.   
  
Still, he dreams.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
The walls curve and twist and scream until anything that once resembled some form of sanity  
is cut and tattered and torn to pieces.  
  
He clutches at the floor for safety, but finds none. The blood ebbs closer and closer,   
until he is drowning it, until his body is slick and his hair soaked with red.  
  
He sobs dryly, curled on the floor like a wounded puppy, shivering and scared, closing his  
eyes to shut out the horrible mess in front of him.  
  
He can see it even in his mind.  
  
Strange. One moment he is in control, and another, he is breaking.  
  
And then there is the voice.  
  
Max, Max, it's calling, but he hears only the name of some other, of somebody he cannot seem  
to remember. With each breath it comes again, only to be forgotten in the milisecond it   
takes for the sounds to register into his brain. It's driving him crazy, and he's wondering  
whether this is the effect whoever is giving him these visions is looking for.  
  
He can't remember.  
  
Come back, it's saying, and he is vaguely aware that it's Liz, and that he's not the one   
who did this, not the one who killed.  
  
But he can't be sure.  
  
(Max?) All of a sudden it's very, very clear, and very, very close.  
  
(Liz?) But his lips won't cooperate. "Buffy?" Goddamnit! He hasn't even got a clue who  
this Buffy character is, and all his thoughts are already revolving around her.  
  
(Max, you have to come back! Wake up!) "Spike? Shh.. come with me. It's okay. You can  
leave now."  
  
He wants to rip his brain apart. Liz's voice clouds his head but it's *her* voice that   
attacks his ears. (Liz!!) He pants. "Is it you?" His voice is a whisper. His mind is  
spinning, as is he, but still he can't place her.  
  
(You have to wake up. I need you. Please!) "Let's go, Spike. There's nothing you can do  
here."  
  
(I can't. Look what I did.) He's crying now, uncontrollably. "Please. Just leave me   
here."  
  
(No, no, Max. I don't believe it. It wasn't you. I love you. I won't leave.) The voice  
is pleading, exasperated, and full of pain and love and regret, all at once. "Shh.. It's   
okay. You saved.. they're better now."  
  
(It was me. I felt it. I did it with my own hands.) "I killed them."  
  
(No. It was somebody else's hands. You couldn't control what happened.) "Yes, and they're  
dead. You did what you believed was best for them."  
  
(I was there! I smelled the blood. The fear. The betrayal. I looked into her eyes as she  
died.) "It doesn't mean that it's right."  
  
(Maybe, but it wasn't you. You would never. You're a good person Max, everyone knows that.  
You-- You have to come back.) "Nothing's right anymore, Spike. You can't worry about   
that."  
  
Strong hands are pulling him and--  
  
He opens his eyes.  
  
She is staring back at him desperately, and smiles finally when she sees his condition is  
satisfactory. "Oh God, Max, I thought you were gone," She exclaims, hugging him tightly.  
She sees his horrified expression and kisses him gently on the cheek. "It was just a  
dream," she says, her voice muffled by his skin.  
  
"Just a dream," He repeats to himself, running his fingers through his dark hair.  
  
His fingers are coated with blood.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
The shadows dance over the faces of the two entities, revealing beautiful faces of a nature  
and colour that cannot be distinguished by human eyes. The two hold their hands together,  
in front of them, their slender fingers entwined.  
  
"She has been woken." Says the first, in a language that is not of this Earth. The sounds  
are like bell-tones, sweet and light, yet firm and powerful.  
  
They are standing in a cave-like structure. The walls are slimy and the ground is wet, but  
it means nothing for them. They are creatures of purity, and all that surrounds them is   
beautiful simply because they are present.  
  
"And the other players?"  
  
"The flesh has been molded."  
  
The second one stirs uncomfortably, while the first remains stiff and calm. "The energy?"  
She whispers.  
  
"Still present. It should be difficult to gather. It has been four years." His mouth   
curves into a sly smile.  
  
She nods, and pulls her fingers from his grasp. When he doesn't let go of her wrist, she  
gasps and looks back to him. His expression is grave, his voice clear and resonant.  
  
"The Key will be whole once more."  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
TO BE CONTINUED...  
  
God, I need REVIEWS!!!! They are the energy that keeps me going. I apologize for the long   
delay, I've got severe writer's block.  
  
Anybody who's got any suggestions, let me know! I won't know what's wrong until people tell  
me...  
  
  
  
  



	9. Chapter 8: Bleeding

TITLE: Yesterday's Child   
  
AUTHOR: Drusilla   
  
RATING: PG-13   
  
PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Max/Liz   
  
SPOILERS: Season 5 of Buffy, Season Two of Roswell   
  
SUMMARY: When Max is haunted by odd dreams of a certain petite blonde, he brings Liz along   
to Sunnydale, California to investigate, in hopes of finding more of his kind.   
Meanwhile, Buffy explores her feelings for Spike and discovers that everything   
has changed during her absence. Set five years in the future.   
  
Buffy/Roswell crossover, Spike/Buffy and Max/Liz 'ships.   
  
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Jason Katims.   
  
DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please   
  
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!   
  
  
  
YESTERDAY'S CHILD   
  
* * *   
  
CHAPTER 8: Bleeding   
  
* * *   
  
  
She has always, since she was little, expected to be married at the tender age of twenty, to   
someone gentle, and reliable, and good. Curling up in her seat, after having let Max drive   
for this particular stretch of road, she ponders.   
  
Is this better? Her heart screams.   
  
She isn't sure.   
  
The trees loom ominously on either side of them, the forests dark and unwelcoming. What a   
change, atleast, from the stretches of desert sand reflecting the heat of the sun like they   
are so accustomed to.   
  
There are no cars on either lane of the freeway, not at this hour. Nobody enters Sunnydale   
at this at a time so near to dark, and certainly no one ever leaves. It's a great mystery   
to all but the residents why no one escapes the ghost town alive; why no one dares speak.   
  
Those who do will perhaps never speak again.   
  
They're almost there, he says, and she is glad because they are both tired. She won't let   
either of them sleep, however, not after *that* experience.   
  
His lips twitch into a smile as they are rewarded with a square green marker that tells them   
there is only ten miles to go.   
  
Being a practical kind of person, she never thought she'd be here, feel this. Love, she   
supposed. This mutual adoration. They don't need to speak it, or let the other know,   
because they both understand and love becomes lost in the translation. You can touch the   
stars, someone once said, if you're willing to risk being burnt.   
  
(Would you lie for me?)   
  
He looks over to her for a moment and she slides her fingers through his. For a fleeting   
moment she is truly content and her surroundings are meaningless, because although she is   
hundreds of miles from her bed and house, this is where she is at home.   
  
(Would you fight for me?)   
  
Closing her eyes, she lets her head fall backward, soaking in the last rays of the dying   
sun.   
  
(Would you die for me?)   
  
She's willing to take the risk.   
  
  
* * *   
  
  
She is sitting on the broken white bench on the porch, bare feet swinging back and forth   
and without emotion. When he finds her her eyes are empty, void of spirit or meaning and it   
disturbs him immensely as she turns, finally, at his voice, after having called, and then   
whispered, her name three times.   
  
"Come back inside," he says quietly, eyeing the sun warily. Her face shows no evidence of   
understanding.   
  
"Why?" She challenges him, her eyebrows quickly forming a frown.   
  
"It's not safe outside."   
  
"It's light out." She argues, her tone childlike.   
  
He sighs. "There are things other than vampires."   
  
She begins to laugh at that. "And what good will the walls do then? They fall and then   
I'll wash away the blood. Again. And again..."   
  
(And the blood is always sweet.) He is quiet.   
  
"Willow and Xander. I was supposed to meet them at Willow's house, remember? Tonight is   
Graduation..." She rises from her seat and makes as if to run, before he calls her.   
  
"Buffy."   
  
"I have to go! They're waiting!" Panting, she calms for a moment, before whimpering.   
"Will you get them for me? Carve them from their flesh? Their blood?" Her eyes flash with   
a darkness and some secret meaning, and roll backwards once, twice, and the return   
to their original emerald colouring.   
  
(Always.)   
  
"Will you rip their bones to make them whole?" Her voice is sickly-sweet and high-pitched,   
and it reminds him of something ancient and unholy.   
  
(For you, darling.)   
  
And then it passes. The thing. The darkness that he could not have placed, that followed   
her being with every movement. He frowns, and she straightens, her lip trembling.   
  
A whisper. "They're dead."   
  
He knows. God, he knows only too well.   
  
"And there's nothing I could have done, even if I was there. I couldn't have stopped it.   
How could I have, knowing what I knew? Having done what they said was impossible?   
Abominable?"   
  
(This love.) He doesn't wan't to hear. "Buffy."   
  
"There's something wrong. Something different, something dark." She collapses but he is   
quick to catch her, setting his sleeve aflame in the process.   
  
His eyebrows furrow as she gets up slowly to return to the shadows, where it is cold. The   
only place where there is comfort, where it is safe. He grasps her arms roughly and is   
startled by her new fragility, and strange scent of her blood.   
  
"What is it?" She whispers.   
  
His eyes widen as he lets go of her quickly, withdrawing his hands as though she burned him.   
She frowns, looking at him questioningly, confused, while he retreats involuntarily from   
her reach.   
  
"God," He mutters, in disbelief. "You're not her."   
  
(Who?)   
  
Shaking his head, he chuckles unhumorously. "You're not the Slayer."   
  
  
* * *   
  
  
TO BE CONTINUED...   
  
Really sorry for the delay, folks. It's been forever since I picked up a pen to write.   
It's just that I've been so busy with school and now two websites to maintain.   
  
I hope you enjoyed this part of the story. If you can, please review. I'd really   
appreciate it. 


	10. Chapter 9: Essence

TITLE: Yesterday's Child  
  
AUTHOR: Drusilla  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Max/Liz  
  
SPOILERS: Season 5 of Buffy, Season Two of Roswell  
  
SUMMARY: When Max is haunted by odd dreams of a certain petite blonde, he brings Liz along  
to Sunnydale, California to investigate, in hopes of finding more of his kind.  
Meanwhile, Buffy explores her feelings for Spike and discovers that everything  
has changed during her absence. Set five years in the future.  
  
Buffy/Roswell crossover, Spike/Buffy and Max/Liz 'ships.  
  
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Jason Katims.  
  
DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please  
  
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!  
  
  
  
  
YESTERDAY'S CHILD  
  
* * *  
  
CHAPTER 9: ESSENCE  
  
* * *  
  
  
The scene before them is nothing they can have ever expected; but then, nothing is.  
  
It is almost eerie, the way the shutters of the houses groan as they swing back and forth in the wind,   
shrieking in high-pitched tones like a banshee's wail. They way the windows are still propped open and   
the cars still sit on the driveways, their tires flat and their metal coats rusted.  
  
She expected a ghost town, or a conspiratorial, bustling village, or a an oblivious or ignorant city such as   
her own Roswell. This is none of those. This is a friendly, welcoming town that has been plucked of its   
populace, a town with the appearance of any other town except that it is devoid of people. And not   
simply as though the residents had picked up and moved away. No: here, it is as though the people   
had, quite frankly, disappeared.  
  
They drive onward, and soon begin to see signs of damage. A lot covered in ash where a house had   
surely once stood. Strange, because its neighbours are in tact. What other mysteries await them here?  
they wonder, viewing everything with suspicion and superstition.  
  
"Where do we go first?" She breathes, squirming uncomfortably at the atmosphere of this place. There  
is definitely something dark here, she thinks, something dangerous. Is this what we have set here to   
find?  
  
Max is looking better already, smiling almost as he says, "The hospital, do you think?"  
  
She looks worried for a moment. "Are you hurt so badly?" She is narrowing her eyes once again.  
  
He almost laughs at her. "Oh, no. We can check records. Deaths. Don't they record those?"  
  
"At the morgue, maybe. We don't have a map," she argues pointedly.  
  
"I know where to go. And I'm betting if they have any of those places, they're closed." He says, and  
they switch sides, so that now he's in the driver's seat. The sound of their wheels on the cracked   
concrete is deafening, echoing once, twice, and yet again around them. And then the tires screech to a   
stop, and they've arrived.  
  
It is a building that looks as though it had never been welcoming, even when it was in full operation.   
They had seen too many deaths here, too many inexplicable mysteries that it wrapped itself close and   
never let go. It became white and crisp and uncaring, even in its youth. And now, in old age, it was dark   
and crumbling.  
  
The two say nothing as they step out of their black vehicle, carefully making their way to the once-glassed   
doors. Liz hits the secretary's computers at once, as Max runs his hand over the locks and begins to file  
through the cabinets, raising clouds of dust and other oddities with each folder.  
  
"There's no electricity." She say, reemerging, slowly, from underneath the desk.   
  
He nods. So he expected. He remains silent as he runs his fingers through the "St-Sz" drawer until he  
finds "Summers, Joyce", "Summers, Buffy Anne", and "Summers, Dawn."   
  
"That's strange," she says, and he almost jumps because he had not realized she was beside him.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Dawn Summers. There's nothing except blank paper in the file. Everything looks like it's been erased."  
  
He stares blankly at the sheets. "Why would they do that?"  
  
"They wouldn't. If she didn't exist legally they wouldn't have a file at all. If she never was a patient here  
they would at least have information on her address and other legal information. They wouldn't have   
blank pages in her file."  
  
He simply puts the folder aside and begins to look through the other Summers papers, relieved that they,   
at least, kept no secrets.  
  
"Max!" She exclaims, angry at his ignorance. "Don't you understand? Obviously this girl was different.   
Obviously someone didn't want anyone to know. Maybe someone didn't want US to know."  
  
"Okay. I get that."  
  
She's still exasperated but evidently he does not care. Fine. She would do her own thing. Grabbing a   
the last file, she scans through the documents quickly. "Joyce Summers. Died of an aneurysm in 2001.   
Had brain cancer and a short period of mental illness." She closes the file. " There's nothing interesting   
here, Max. The woman died of natural causes."  
  
He holds a hand up. "Buffy Summers. Died in 2001 in what was reported to be a suicide. Autopsy reports   
say that every bone in her body was broken. Also says that she appeared to have been struck by ten or   
more bolts of lightning. Officials claim her death to be suspicious." He closes the file too. "You can't tell   
me that isn't interesting."  
  
She smiles.   
  
"You win."  
  
  
* * *  
  
TO BE CONTINUED...  
  
Confrontation to come! Stay tuned!  
  
I BEG OF YOU TO REVIEW! 


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